With Heavy Hearts and Loaded Guns
by Becky-the-Kat
Summary: Filling a request from Living in a fantasy. After wrapping up a simple case, Sherlock and John decide to take some time off for Christmas. Things don't go as planned.
1. Chapter 1

The bitter cold seemed to stop the city. Much colder than average, base temperature in the negatives, -13 degrees Celsius to be exact. the harsh wind made it seem much worse. It stopped the city, but it wasn't enough to stop the crime. Lestrade had called them in much sooner than he usually would, but the triple homicide called for the expertise of Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you doing here freak?" Donovan scoffed as they stepped out of their taxi and towards the police tape that covered a small abandoned flat. Sherlock sighed.

"Lestrade called me. Of course you knew that. Are you really that dull that you cannot think of anything else to say to me?" Sherlock asked, pulling the police tape up and ducking underneath, holding it up for John to follow.

They were up in the actual scene of the crime in an instant. All three were women.

"Same age range. Professional women, by their clothes, high class most likely. Married. Nothing obvious in common, but..." He paused, moving to turn over the victim's wrists. "Same tattoos. Not the symbol of a gang, or an organization at a glance. Personal then. They must have been friends. Or close family. Not by blood, different hair, eye, and skin colors, by marriage then. Judging by their wedding rings, the latter more likely. Same diamond cut, and setting style. Meaning the same jeweler. One of their husbands got married first and passed on good word to his relatives." Sherlock started, but pausing to examine them more closely.

"Those wounds are surgical. Preformed before death, and it would have been a painful surgery. Two of the women have had their ovaries and wombs removed, the third has had hers sliced open. She was pregnant, about seven months along judging by the stretch marks on the skin around the wounds. No signs of struggle, so they must have been knocked unconscious by a heavy tranquilizer, at the same time or one of them would have noticed something was wrong. Likely through something they ate or drank but I can't be certain." He explained. "Statistically a woman is more likely than a man. Someone who had a miscarriage or was told they could not have children." Sherlock said, trailing off. He hummed in annoyance. Something wasn't adding up. He looked around seeing what was throwing this scene off.

"From the state of decay, I would assume they have been here for three days." He said. A loud thump made everyone in the room jolt in surprise moments after. With that Sherlock took off. He was flitting through the crime scene, running his hands against walls, and floorboards. After a few moments he threw open a small closet, and did the same. He pushed lightly against the wall, where a small piece of it shifted out. Sherlock leaned into the small crawl space and awkwardly pulled a small child out of it.

"Hey! You can't move around evidence" Anderson called. The flash of anger on Sherlock's face was unmistakable.

"I believe you will find your evidence is alive." He growled, handing the child to John, before bending over to into the cubby again. John knelt down with the child, quickly untying her gag, and then the bonds holding her feet, and hands which were secured behind her back.

"Can someone get her some water? And a blanket?" John called. A bottle of water was thrust forward instantly from Donovan. The child looked at it warily before taking a sip. After a moment deciding that it was safe before drinking much more rapidly. The girl was full of deep cuts and dark bruises. A slash mark was made from her eye to her chin with a knife. Her lips cut almost in half at an angle. Another child was pulled out by Sherlock a moment later, a boy, and then another little girl. The last girl did not have a gag, but heavy bruising around her neck suggested she had been strangled. Her voice was probably too raw to speak, let alone loud enough to be able to be heard among the hustle and bustle of the police. One of her shoulders was dislocated and her gums and tongue bloody from chewing at the bonds she had forced under herself and back in front of her. She was seemingly the oldest of the three, and once untied she rummaged through John's jacket, pulling the pen and paper John almost always had with him from his coat. After a few moments she ripped the page out and scrambled up, thrusting it at Sherlock. He glanced down at the paper.

43 Manchester Street

Deborah Donahue

Surgeon at St. Bartholomew's

Find my Daddy?

"You brilliant, clever little girl." Sherlock said, patting her lightly on the head. "Deborah? Is this the woman that brought you and your family here?" He asked, kneeling in front of her. The girl opened her mouth. "Don't try to talk your neck and throat is probably very injured. Just thumbs up for yes, thumbs down for no can you do that?" He asked. The girl held two thumbs up, and Sherlock smiled. "So yes to both questions?" He asked. She dropped one hand but let the remaining hand stay thumbs up.

"The woman planned to take your father too?" He asked. She made a thumbs up. "Did she say where at any point?" He asked. She was seemingly annoyed, and ripped the note from him, pointing clearly at the address.

"43 Manchester Street." Sherlock called to Lestrade who nodded, now giving orders to his team.

"Anderson called a med team for the kids. They are downstairs." He told Sherlock. Donovan went to go help the little girl get downstairs but she pulled away, hiding in Sherlock's coat. Sherlock chortled at that and bent over to pick up the girl. Donovan rolled her eyes, and went to help John with one of the other two children. Once downstairs, Sherlock put the girl on the back of the ambulance and bolted off. John took a second to make sure the three children were going to be ok with the medical team, He slipped a quick note to one of the men in the ambulance, who looked at him funny for it and nodded. And then, he took off after Sherlock.

When they arrived at the next crime scene, before the police, this time four men were sprawled out on the floor. Small, round, holes were punctured in all four of the victim's heads. Shelock sighed. He stepped over the bodies. He started rifling around the scene. He pulled out a photo and threw it at John. "It's the murderer's car." He said. "The fourth victim is her own husband." He said. "Deborah is dull. Stupid. The little girl, now she was clever. She had immaculate handwriting for a seven year old. How many kids can spell Surgeon and Bartholomew's?" He said, picking up the woman's phone with gloved hands and hitting redial. A ring echoed through the house.

"Last call went out to her husband." Sherlock said, "Most likely to bring the men over." Sherlock said with a bored tone in his voice. Sherlock looked around the apartment some more, and the police arrived. Sherlock rolled his eyes, popping over the woman's laptop. He opened the history and groaned. "Stupid." He murmured, opening the website and handing the computer to Lestrade, a document from the hotel she booked a room at just before she would have had to be gone from the scene of the crime.

"Did you two need a ride home? It's bloody cold out there." Lestrade asked; Sherlock shrugged.

"We are only a couple of blocks from the flat." Sherlock stated flatly. John nodded in agreement. With that the consulting detective and the doctor left the home. They practically sprinted back home, luckily there was no snow lining the sidewalks, and very few ice patches.

When they arrived back at the flat John was instantly putting a fire in their fireplace. It was far too cold outside to leave the thing empty. After he finally got it started, he went to put on water in their kettle to boil.

"There's one thing that is bothering me about that case." John said, frowning and looking to Sherlock.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised at John.

"The wounds on the adults, they were all clinical. Clean, and precise. The wounds the children had didn't match, they were beaten and bloodied up, but not killed." John said.

"Simple. They didn't get as much of the drug, and when they woke up they tried to fight the criminal." Sherlock said.

"But why wouldn't she give them enough of the drug?" John asked, now even more confused.

"Children's lives are more structured and repetitive. Especially when it comes to the things they will and will not drink. You can bring out a bottle of champagne, or something none of he adults have never had and they will try it. They wouldn't notice the drug because they have no baseline to compare the drink too. Kids are pickier. She would have given the drug to them in something they enjoyed. The kids would have tasted something was wrong, and complained for a new one. The murderer wouldn't get them something new, but they wouldn't finish their drink. So they would have awakened from their stupor faster, and tried to stop her." Sherlock explained, as if it should have been completely obvious.

"She couldn't let them get away but couldn't bring herself to actually kill them so she hid them." Sherlock added. "You didn't take off your coat." Sherlock stated as he sat down on his chair. John chuckled, pulling off the coat and hanging it up. He noticed a letter was shoved into the pocket of Sherlock's own coat, ripped open, but shoved back into the envelope. It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, with a return address belonging to a Vivian Marie Holmes. John looked curiously over to Sherlock, who was no longer paying much attention to him. John opened the letter.

It was a card, a deep blue with silver snowflakes, very classic. Inside was an invitation to a Christmas dinner.

"Aren't you going to attend?" John asked, waving the card as he walked back into the kitchen.

"Don't know. It depends if I get a case by then. Mummy never expects me to RSVP." Sherlock answered, looking up at John. "Don't go through my things." He added.

"Sticking out of you coat pocket." John said with a shrug. "Has my name on it too you know. Did you tell her I was sharing a flat with you now?" John asked curiously.

"No I didn't but Mycroft probably did." Sherlock said with a shrug. "Haven't spoken to mother since last Christmas." He added.

"You're going." John said finally, putting three teabags in their teapot and pouring the water in it to steep.

"Would you come?" Sherlock asked, looking up to John. "You were invited too after all."

"I dunno. What are these things like?" John asked.

"Dull. Mummy invites the extended family to the dinner, but they are usually cleared out by eight. Mycroft and I generally spend the weekend, sometimes longer, because it's so far away." Sherlock explained.

"And She actually wants me to come? She didn't just tag my name onto the invitation because she felt she had to?" John asked.

"No. My mother is not that type of woman. She only invites family unless she is honestly interested in seeing them. Mycroft was in a relationship for two years, and never once did mother invite his partner to the events" Sherlock explained. "I was quite surprised to see your name on the invitation, actually." He added.

"I don't want to intrude on your family event Sherlock." John said shifting uncomfortably.

"Mother wants you to come. If she didn't, she wouldn't have invited you. And anyways I want you to come. I don't want you to be alone on Christmas. Normal people consider that very sad do they not?" Sherlock asked looking at John.

"I wouldn't be alone. I would go visit Harry," John said, with a simple shrug. Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

"Don't lie. You might go visit your sister for an hour or two but you wouldn't spend the day with her. I know for a fact you wouldn't go visit your parents, though the reasoning behind it evades me." Sherlock drawled.

"My mother passed away. My father and I have had a very poor relationship for as long as I remember." John said with a shrug. "He sends letters, and I use them to light the fire." Sherlock looked at John curiously at that, as if logging it away for further use. John brought the tea tray into the living room and set it on the coffee table. He poured both him and Sherlock a cup, sweetened them properly and placed Sherlock's in the detective's outstretched hand.

"You never answered." Sherlock stated plainly.

"Answered what?" John asked, looking up.

"Would you come to Christmas dinner with me?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure, yea I'll come if you want me there." He said. It sounded curiously like an invitation to meet Sherlock's family, as if he were being shown off like a romantic partner, but John shook his head. That was impossible.

"Good. We leave tomorrow. It takes a while to drive there. Will you be ready?" Sherlock asked. John nodded.

"Is this going to be formal or…?" John asked trailing off.

"Dinner is formal. After that it's casual. Very casual. Mummy doesn't even let Mycroft wear a suit." Sherlock said.

"That should prove to be interesting." John said with an easy smile. Sherlock shivered, pulling his knees up to his chest and holding his cup of tea in both his hands.

"Should have taken that ride from Lestrade. Freezing." He complained. John snickered and rolled his eyes.

"The tea should help. We weren't out there too long." John said, grabbing Sherlock a blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. "You should get some sleep if we are driving out to your family home tomorrow. I'm going to pack up and do the same." John added.

Sherlock held up his cup of tea, dismissively, and John went up to his room and did as he said.

Hours later he woke up in a cold sweat. The nightmares hadn't been as bad since moving in to 221B Baker Street, but touching on the topic of his father had set them off. Instead of war flashback, however, he got flashbacks from the last time he saw his father. The man had broken his jaw, kicked him out, and told him not to come back.

John padded down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Sherlock was asleep, but huddled into a ball on the couch, desperately trying to cover himself with the folded blanket in his sleep. The consulting detective looked much more vulnerable like this, and even living with him it was a rare occasion to see the man in such a state. He added another blanket over Sherlock, not daring to move the blanket he was already clutching for fear of waking him up, and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge before going back up to his room.

5:17 am

His clock glared at him from the bedside table. There really was no point in attempting to go back to sleep, but he was too tired to attempt anything else, instead he took a few drinks of his water and curled back into bed.

The alarm screamed at him several hours later, but he hadn't fallen asleep. He hit the machine hard until it's screeching stopped, and got up and walked back downstairs.

"When did you wake up?" Sherlock asked as soon as he saw John. He now had both blankets wrapped around him like a cocoon, as he sat upright on the couch he fell asleep on.

"About quarter after five." John stated, knowing there was no use lying to the detective.

"Thank you. For the blanket." Sherlock said, looking up to John.

"I came down for some water, the fire was out and you looked cold." John said shrugging. It really wasn't that big of a deal.

"When do we need to leave?" John asked. It was the 24th, but Sherlock said they would need to leave today.

"How soon can you be ready?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John.

"That soon eh? How far is it?" John asked.

"Six hours." He explained, and John made a groaning sound.

"Did you get a rental?" John asked.

"Yes, well, Mycroft sent a car for us. Though he won't be accompanying us; he wants to ensure I arrive on time this year." Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

"You were late last time then?" John asked curiously.

"Yes. Made a wrong turn because I was distracted by what looked like a car accident on the side of the road." He shrugged. "Not an accident but a murder, the officials on duty didn't want my help but the distraction got me a bit turned around" Sherlock explained. John nodded.

"I can grab my bag, and eat some breakfast and we can be off. Sound good?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded. This would prove to be an interesting holiday to say the least. John made them eggs on toast, and hands some to Sherlock before eating his own. Sherlock didn't eat a lot, but John knew he hadn't eaten in three days so he insisted. Sherlock did as he was told and they were off.

John drove most of the way while Sherlock slept. The directions were easy enough to follow, on the GPS Mycroft had explicitly set up for him. There was a vaguely threatening message telling him not to stray from the directions of the GPS.

He didn't, however, expect a speeding truck to smash into the driver's side of the vehicle halfway through an intersection in the middle of nowhere. The truck was seemingly fine, a bit crunched up at the front, but it sped off just as fast as it came.

John recognized that he was injured, broken arm right, and probably a few ribs. His head was killing him but he was pretty sure he wasn't concussed. He didn't think of those things, instead he was leaning over to inspect the injuries of the now wide-awake detective. He doubted anyone could sleep through a car accident like that.

"Are you alright?" John asked, breathing shallow and cradling his arm close to his chest. Sherlock had a few cuts and bruises, but nothing seemingly serious; it was John that got the full impact of the car.

"You're bleeding." Sherlock said worriedly, panic setting into his tone before smoothing out.

"Just got hit by a bloody truck. Of course Yes I'm bleeding. I'm fine." He said lying through his teeth. "Can't get the car to start back up. The GPS said the nearest town was an hour drive." John said grimly. "And I don't think I can walk." He added. His legs seemed fine, but the pain in his side would be debilitating. Not to mention Hypothermia would set in quickly with this wind and these temperatures.

"John. You aren't fine. There is glass sticking out of your face, you just got hit dead on by a truck and we are in the middle of nowehere.

Ah, glass. That's why his head hurt so badly, despite the fact that he didn't think he really hit it on anything.

"Sherlock, please now is not the time for you of all people to have a panic attack. Pull the back seats out so you can reach the trunk and pull out bags and that pile of blankets into the main part of the car and shut it." John instructed calmly. Years of training as an army doctor coming out smoothly.

Sherlock sprung into motion at the instructions, clamoring awkwardly into the back seat and doing as he was told. When he flipped the seats of the car back up, John carefully climbed into the back with him, wincing as he hit his arm and ribs on the seat. John picked up one of the heavier blankets.

"Now what? Should we not get the glass out?" Sherlock asked.

"Stop worrying about me for a moment please? Take each end of the blanket and tie it to either of the hand holds of the car. It's not much but it will block some of the wind coming in from the broken windows. Now put back on your coat and scarf. Better yet, put on one of my oversized jumpers and then the coat and scarf." John said, "It is cold enough outside that Hypothermia could set in in minutes." He said, waiting for Sherlock to do as instructed.

"It's bleeding rather a lot. I don't want you to pass out from blood loss." Sherlock said worriedly, but doing as he was told, carefully so he didn't bump into John too much.

"I have a first aid kit in my bag. Grab it." John said.

"Why do even have one?" Sherlock asked.

"I never travel extensively without one. Never know when it might come in handy. There's a mirror, alcohol wipes and medical thread. Take those things out. And the tweezers." He said. Sherlock did so. "wipe down your hands, the tweezers and my face with the alcohol wipes. Sherlock did so, but shaking when he got to John's face.

"Don't want to hurt you." He said.

"You will hurt me. But it's necessary. When you are done with that pull the glass out of my cuts" John said. Sherlock sighed but nodded. He shifted in the car to have better access to the Doctor's face. Sherlock looked more composed now, determined and collected, but his hands were shaking as he pulled the shards of glass out. John didn't mention it. When Sherlock nodded and claimed he finished, John looked into the mirror carefully. There was a nasty cut dangerously close to his temple, no wonder Sherlock looked so worried. He would need to stich it.

"Hold up the mirror for me." He instructed, taking the needle and thread from the detective.

"You're right handed." Sherlock announced.

"Yes I am." John said, looking at Sherlock confused.

"How are you going to stitch up your own face?" Sherlock asked.

"With my left hand. Mirror now. And call your brother for help. I have the coordinated from the GPS if he needs them" He said firmly, Sherlock did so and John began his work. He wiped his hands down with the alcohol wipes and then opened the bagged needle and then the thread. He cut the thread off with his teeth. Not the most sanitary but he would have to make do.

It took John only a few minutes, and lots of swearing to finish the stitches. By then the car cooled down considerably. Sherlock was shaking like a leaf, and John knew it wasn't from shock. John wrapped the remaining blankets around himself and Sherlock, moving very close to the detective, practically sits in his lap.

"Mycroft didn't need the coordinates, he traced the GPS and it notified him, apparently it notified him when we got into the accident. He is on his way, but he warns that it will be about an hour. Why are you in my lap John?" Sherlock asked his voice wavering from the shivers.

"Because I'm shorter than you and we need to share body heat." He explained. "You should eat more. It's cold but not that cold. You shouldn't have started suffering from hypothermia for other ten or so minutes before you should have, and that's if you were outside in the wind." John said, wrapping them

in Sherlock's coat first and then the remaining blankets.

"I thought that was just something people did in movies as an excuse for the main charcters to jump one-another." Sherlock said, making John laugh.

"No there is some merit to sharing body heat." John explained. "Whatever you do I need you not to fall asleep before Mycroft gets here." John said.

"I don't want to die John." Sherock said, then looking at John more seriously. "I don't want you to die." He added, but in a firmer tone.

"Neither of us are dying. Your brother will get here, and we'll go to a hospital and then have a pleasant day with your family tomorrow." He said firmly, though it didn't take much more than a half of an hour for the two of them to succumb to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

And here is Chapter two ^^ Hope you all enjoy it. Sorry it's a bit shorter than I planned but with all of the time lapses and breaks, it just seemed like a natural place to end this chapter.

Living_in_a_Fantasy, I apologize for not getting to the scene I told you I was putting in here, but you wanted a new chapter before you went into town. It's 2:45am, and my brain is melting.

* * *

John's phone suddenly began screaming loudly, or at least it sounded that way to him, startling the doctor awake. He fumbled for his phone with his uninjured arm, answering it. It proved difficult to use the phone when he was shaking so violently.

"H…hello?" He chattered, pressing into closer to Sherlock, attempting to shake the detective awake. He placed the fingers of his broken arm to Sherlock's neck, checking for a pulse. He sighed in relief when the man proved to be alive still.

"You're a doctor. You should know better than to fall asleep" Mycroft's voice said cooly at the other end.

"How did you?" John asked, shivering in the cold. He cradled the phone with his shoulder, and smacked the detective across the face. Sherlock woke up with a jolt. "Sorry, so sorry." He said apologizing to the confused man.

"It's my car. You think I don't have surveillance?" Mycroft scoffed. "The man who hit you is being picked up in the next town by the police. Drunk driving, apparently. You need to stay awake for another half of an hour." He added.

Mycroft Holmes always seemed put together, so John wasn't surprised that he wasn't panicking at the situation. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he did. John could, however, hear fear and vulnerability in the elder Holmes' voice that he didn't expect.

"Ok. Thank you Mycroft. Do my best." He said, hanging up the phone. He was too delirious to spend the effort in keeping his phone up.

"My face hurts." Sherlock said, his words slurring and cut up by his shivering.

"I just hit you to wake you up." John explained. He groaned in pain as Sherlock shifted his position.

"You hurt more. Need a doctor." Sherlock said.

"I am a doctor." John said, laughing, pressing his face into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. Personal boundaries were no longer important to the pair.

"You know thasnot what I meant." Sherlock said frowning. "Tired John." He complained.

"You can't sleep. You know that. We were lucky I woke up to yurbrothers phone call." John explained, Sherlock shifted with a huff, adjusting his arms so that they were around John's body, but careful not to apply pressure on his injuries.

"Please don't die." Sherlocked croaked out.

"We aren't dying here." John said firmly.

"Wemight." Sherlock said. "Donlie." Sherlock's words were slow and slurring, as if he had to put a lot of effort into speaking.

"I'm sure Mycroft will b'eresoon" John slurred out. He was shaking violently, and feeling rather dizzy. In the back of his head he realized something else must be wrong. Dizziness wasn't a symptom of hypothermia.

"You'restill bleeding." Sherlock said. "fromyourleg."

"Too cold. Can't." John said shaking his head. He was having a bad time keeping his eyes open. His vision was blurring. The wind had picked up, blowing their blanket shield around. John shifted his body to protect Sherlock from most of the wind. He looked down to the large gash on his leg, grimacing at the wound. Nothing seemed to be inside it. He looked up, and sighed. He was shaking to badly to give his leg the same treatment as his head. He needed to stop the bleeding, however.

John fumbled with Sherlock's belt for a moment, as he wasn't wearing on.

"Wh..what are you doing?" Sherlock called startled, eyes wide. John chuckled.

"Tourniquet….either your belt or your scarf." John stuttered out. He wrapped the belt above the gash, pulling as hard as he could. "Knife. First Aid kit." John asked. He waited as Sherlock fumbled for a moment but produced the swiss army knife. John put a new hole in the belt, and fed the latch though it, before tossing the knife aside and shifting close to Sherlock once again.

John's vision swam moments later, the world span and went dark.

* * *

John woke up in the too-bright lights of a hospital. He panicked for a moment, but relaxed when he saw Sherlock. The man was sitting on a chair, hugging his knees. His eyes were closed and the bottom of his face was covered by the neck of the jumper he was wearing. John recognized it as his, the one Sherlock put on in the car. Next he saw Mycroft sitting stiffly in another chair.

"Doctors here are morons." John complained, his arm was badly stinted but not casted yet. He would need to be conscious to take better X-rays he was sure. However, he felt the staples pulling at his skin, idiots. This definitely should have been stitched not stapled. He would be worried about ripping them at the slightest movement.

"My apologies. This was the closest medical facility." Mycroft said, nodding his head to John.

"Why'd they let you in?" John asked, confused.

"They did refuse us entry at first, but Sherlock threw a bit of a fit once they treated his hypothermia." Mycroft commented. "They still didn't let us in, but then they called your I.C.E contacts. ICE1 Sherlock. But he wasn't family, so still no entry. ICE2 was Harry, but she was heavily intoxicated from what I gathered from the telephone call. ICE3 was me. I am deeply flattered by the way." Mycroft explained. "After that, they allowed us to sit with you." He explained.

"Wasn't so much relying on you to help me. I noticed Sherlock didn't have In Case of Emergency numbers set into his phone, and if Sherlock wasn't able to help, and…well I just added Harry in out of necessity because only immediate family can make medical decisions for me, but if Sherlock wasn't available it's safe to assume that's because he's also hurt or injured. I thought you'd like to know." John said looking over to the elder Holmes brother.

"Thank you, that's…very thoughtful. But you didn't have your parents listed?" Mycroft asked curiously.

"No definitely not." John said firmly, unwilling to elaborate on the subject. "He's awake you know." John said nodding to Sherlock, who merely looked up from his knees when he was referred to. His eyes were stormy and guarded, but John knew he wouldn't talk about it with his brother around, so he didn't ask.

"I see. You might as well call the nurse," Mycroft said, pointing at the button call. "The faster they get you casted up the faster we can be out of this infernal place." He said. John did as he was asked. The nurse showed up moments later.

"Ah Mr. Watson. You're awake, how are you feeling? You must have had quite an ordeal." The woman said conversationally as she stepped in the room.

"Dr. Watson. And I'm actually not in the mood for your small talk to make me feel more comfortable." John said impatiently.

"My apologies. Someone will be in soon for X-rays. What would you rate your pain?" The nurse asked, dropping all of the previous perk.

"Four. I'll pass on the pain medication." John said.

"Your ten must be astronomical." The woman said. John sighed, realizing his mistake at the pain in his bruised ribs. At the feeling he decided they might be cracked, but they definitely were not broken. That was a relief to him.

When John got taken for his X-ray, he saw the panicked look given to him by Sherlock. It flickered over the detective's features only for a moment, before he switched back to his passive disinterest. When John got back, he excused himself to the lavatory.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, looking at John carefully.

"What for?" John asked.

"When the wind picked up, you blocked it from him. With his sleep deprivation and the lack of food in his system the medical professionals were surprised that he was still alive from the amount of time you were out. Called it a miracle." He said, raising an eyebrow but not commenting further.

"Did what I could with what I had. The one and only time I wished one of us was a drinker." John joked. Sherlock padded back in moments later, and re-assumed his previous position. "Are you feeling better?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, but frowned.

"Feels like I'm freezing and burning all at once but better than before." He mumbled.

It took a few more hours for them to be done with the doctors. They wanted to keep John longer, but he insisted on leaving. He didn't need any of their bedside manners. He was a doctor; he knew the signs to watch for it something worse was to occur.

The doctors did insist that he was taken out in a wheelchair. Sherlock pushed him out, and helped him into the car, trying not to put any strain on the shorter man's leg or ribs.

The limousine was roomy enough that John wasn't cramped, but that didn't make sitting up comfortable at all.

"You should have let them give you a pain reliever." Sherlock said frowning.

"I'm fine, I didn't need it and I still don't." John said firmly. Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment but dropped the subject. The atmosphere was silent, and tense. John felt himself drifting off to sleep, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder as he faded out of consciousness once again, this time in a much more benign fashion. Somewhere, John realized, that Sherlock pressed his fingers to his pulse point right after he fell asleep. He blinked up and the detective for a moment, but closed his eyes again moments later.

He woke up later, as the sound of the road changed to gravel, and then pavement again. He looked up and out of the window; the house was large and lavish. Much better than anything he's ever lived in.

"Thought so," John mumbled, sitting up. He cracked his left shoulder, and then his back. This hurt more than usual because of his ribs, but the discomfort from leaving it would have been too much for him to deal with.

"Thought what?" Mycroft asked, looking at him.

"Old money," John commented casually. "Sherlock dresses too posh not to." John added. Mycroft chuckled at that. The forced, fake, sound that usually came from his lips but it was a laugh nonetheless. Sherlock glared at him

"Would you like a wheelchair John? I'm sure we have one somewhere." Mycroft asked. John shook his head.

"No I should be fine." He said firmly. The staples seemed sturdy enough to hold, and the pain was mostly gone from the cut. With some help, John got out of the car. He limped to the door, a bit awkwardly, but he was used to it after months of limping before he met Sherlock.

A tall woman, older, but not old enough to be Mrs. Holmes, answered the door.

"Your mother has fallen asleep waiting at the window. Don't wake her. If you wake her so help me." The woman said threateningly, but not finishing the sentence, seemingly under the assumption that the Holmes boys knew where that sentence was going.

"Of course Mrs. Amberleine." Sherlock said, chuckling. "This is my flat mate, Dr. John Watson. Mummy invited him." He added.

"Good to meet you doctor. It seems you've gotten yourself in quite the mess." She said, frowning.

"Sherlock and I got hit by a drunk driver on the way here. I didn't see it, until far too late. Hit the driver's side dead on." He said, moving his casted arm very carefully for emphasis. It hurt, badly, and he bit back a groan of pain.

"Oh you poor dears!" She said, shifting from a stern housekeeper to a worrying nanny in an instant. "That's why Madam Holmes was waiting by the window? The woman never tells me anything! I could show you to your rooms? Or well, show you to your room rather. Those two know where they'll be staying. Or I could put on a spot of tea?" She asked, worriedly.

"I'm fine ma'am thank you though. I just want some sleep." John said with a smile.

"Nonesense, we've slept quite enough today." Sherlock said.

"Falling unconscious is not the same as sleeping, Sherlock! Your body needs sleep after being abused so harshly by the cold. If I find out you were up all night tonight I will be tossing out your nicotine patches. All of them, and yes I do know about the pack you hide under your bed, beneath your socks, under the skull, behind the tea and taped inside the top of the toilet's tank." John said. Sherlock looked visibly frightened

"I am not a child John. No need to threaten me like one. I'll be going to my room. Where did you put John?" Sherlock asked, looking at the woman.

"Your mother had me make up the suite across from yours and Mycroft's." The woman said, in a tone that made the placement sound significant, though John didn't know why it would be.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to be visibly taken aback at the news, confusing John even more.

"Good. Very good. I can take him up then Mrs. Amberleine." Sherlock said.

The woman frowned but nodded. "Do you have any things?"

"I do, but I don't believe Sherlock's or John's will be arriving until mid-morning. In the rush to get them to a hospital, I left them. I made the proper arrangements to get them brought here while the two were incapacitated." Mycroft explained.

"You'll have to find your friend something to sleep in too then Sherlock. I'm sure something of yours will do for the night?" She asked, and Sherlock nodded, and with that departed.

"What did you tell mummy about him, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, his tone annoyed, but not angry, but honestly curious.

"Not a lot. Just when he moved in, that he had been an army doctor, he preferred going by Dr. to Captain. Small things, only when she asked. Though you know Mummy, she probably noticed I upgraded your surveillance status, and the status of Dr. John H. Watson." Mycroft commented dryly.

"What did you list John as?" Sherlock asked. "And stop bugging the flat." He added.

"It's changed several time. At first, flat mate, then Colleague. But after the pool incident, I was…unsure. A…friend of mine suggested I list him as close friend/family. In retrospect I should have realized that, that sort of change would have interested her." Mycroft answered stiffly.

"Friend? Since when do you have _friends_?" Sherlock hissed, "Especially a friend whom you allow to see files on me and my flat mate?"

John felt a bit like a loyal puppy being spoken about as if he didn't understand what was being spoken around him. He was annoyed by it, but too curious about Mycroft's answer to voice his anger. Mycroft merely smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"You mean the genius Sherlock Holmes hasn't already deduced the answer?" Mycroft said smugly. "You're slipping brother of mine. Let me know once you've figured it out, will you?" He left it at that and began climbing the stairs. As Sherlock and John approached those same stairs, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the man's upper back, just underneath his armpits, to help him up the stairs, but also so he didn't jostle his bruised ribs too much.

John was slightly out of breath when they made it to the top of the stairs, despite them being relatively short. "So why is my placement in the house so serious?" John asked as he attempted to catch his breath.

"Despite having an extra bedroom on the floor, mother never let anyone use it. There is a guest wing meant for guests. In all the time I have lived here, and even since I moved out, she has only assigned three people into that room. My Aunt Dahlia, her sister, and my maternal grandparents." Sherlock said, shrugging.

"Well I can't say I'm not grateful. Don't like leaving you to stray too far. Not with Moriarty still lurking about." John said uncomfortably.

"You never told me how he got the leg up on you, to strap you to that bomb by the way." Sherlock said, looking at John.

"Conversation for another time Sherlock. Remind me to tell you what happened after we've finished Christmas festivities." John told Sherlock. He frowned.

"Well here's your room." Sherlock said. "Mine's that one across the hall, Mycroft's is there, and Mummy is at the end of the hall." Sherlock said, opening the room. John's jaw dropped.

"This is the size of our flat." John commented dryly.

"Come on now, it's not that big. Don't exaggerate. Here let me grab you something to wear for the night. I think Mummy stores some of my old clothes somewhere." He trailed off going to his own room. John followed, curious to see what it looked like. It was very plain, elegant some might call it. It was done in pale blues and dark chocolate browns. Nothing like a child's room, but John assumed it had been redone once Sherlock moved out, or more likely when he got older. It was still difficult for John to picture the man as a child, even more difficult to picture him as a child who had wanted to become a pirate.

"Here, the might fit oddly because I've always been rather tall. But they were always rather loose on me, so the shirt should fit over your shoulders and chest without pulling. It wasn't until John was halfway back across the hall to the guest room that he realized. He stopped, huffing in annoyance, glaring at the bulky cast on his arm.

"Err….Sherlock, could you help me out of my jumper, I don't think I'll be needing the new shirt terribly badly, but erm. With the cast I can't raise my arm too high" John asked. He really didn't like asking for help again. It made him feel much like being back from Afghanistan did. Useless, crippled, and weak, but he could manage, he knew he would get better this time. That he would be once again chasing criminals with Sherlock once his staples healed up and were removed, probably even before he had his cast off. He didn't like, however, that it was his right that was injured. He could shoot well enough with his left, but probably not with the same accuracy. He'd never tried too hard. He could only hope Sherlock would stay out of any serious trouble until his arm healed up.

"Oh. Of course. "Sherlock said, guiding John to his room, and carefully helping with the shirt. He frowned seriously seeing the angry dark purple, blue, and black bruising across John's ribs. "I don't like it when you are hurt John." He said.

"That's normal. We don't generally enjoy seeing the people we care for hurt Sherlock." John said.

"No. It's…different. I remember being angry when Mrs. Hudson was held hostage. Very angry. When people hurt you, I get angry too, even angrier, but it hurts me too. Like a tugging in my chest." Sherlock said, but shaking his head. He looked confused, but he did not expect John to explain the feeling to him. "Those look painful, the nurse did give Mycroft something in case you decided you needed something for it. Are you sure you don't want it?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Definitely not. No pain meds." John said adamantly.

"Why are you so resistant to medication that you need when you prescribe it to your patients regularly for trivial issues." Sherlock said, his eyebrows furrowing.

"My family has a history of addiction, a very detailed and diverse history. My mother overdosed on Vicodin when I turned twelve. She died, in my arms, with yellow eyes, choking on her own vomit." John said tightly.

"Ah….I'm sorry John. I didn't mean to press the matter." He said shifting awkwardly. "Here's your jumper. Are you sure you didn't want me to help with a new shirt?" Sherlock asked

"No, the jumper was uncomfortable pulled over the cast. I don't see a T-shirt being much better." John said, "Thank you Sherlock. Get some rest please? I mean it. Doctor's orders." He added.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock said, closing the door behind him.

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Reviews are loved and appreciated. They help me move to the next chapters more quickly, and boy oh boy do I have things planned for these two. *wiggles eyebrows*


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys, so glad you liked the last chapter. Christmas has arrived, which mean interesting times, and revelations. Reviews make me happy!

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John woke up with a start to someone jumping up and down rapidly on his bed. He fell out of bed, landing squarely on his left side. He groaned in pain, holding back the string of expletives that threatened to pour from his lips. It was a child jumping on his bed, a blonde boy with a bone structure similar to Sherlock's.

"Andrius! You were told not to wake John!" Sherlock's deep voice rang out in the room moments later, his tone actually angry.

"But I had to see him! Arabella thought you were lying when you said you had a friend up here! She dared me to." The little boy pouted. Sherlock groaned in annoyance, coming around the bed to help John get up."Woah! What happened to you?" He cried out

"John got hit by a car yesterday on our way here." Sherlock said firmly.

"Shouldn't you be in a hospital where Doctors can make sure you aren't going to fall out of the bed?" The little boy asked, crossing his arms.

"I am a Doctor, and I wouldn't have fallen out of bed if a certain little boy hadn't woken me up by jumping on it." John said firmly, one eyebrow raised. The child looked away sheepishly, and bolted a moment later.

"Arabella, Arabella!" He yelled as he ran through the house.

"Who was that?" John asked, groaning and leaning against Sherlock in his tired haze.

"Andrius. My younger cousin. They are my father's, little brother's, children. Andrius and Arabella. Twins, and demon spawn if you ask me. Arabella takes after Mycroft in the worst ways." Sherlock commented. "The close family has started to arrive." Sherlock explained, flopping onto the bed.

He looked sharp in what was seemingly his Christmas attire. Black Armani, John knew the brand by sight mostly because the largest population of idiots in Uni, who got in for their money and money only, wore it. His shirt was black as well, his tie was green.

"You're going to wrinkle your suit." John warned but Sherlock waved him off.

"You are going to be very uncomfortable for the next several hours," Sherlock warned. "In more ways than physically."

"Have our things arrived?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded.

"Of course, Mycroft's idea of mid-morning is seven AM sharp. It's now nine. Your bag is outside the door I can fetch it for you." Sherlock said, though made no attempt at moving for the bag.

"The close relatives show up early, and help with the preparations, while their spawn cause trouble. By close relatives I mean my mother's siblings and my father's siblings. My Granparents used to, but as they've gotten older stopped arriving early. Then you have the second and third cousins of my mother, and all of the cousins that are somewhere in our age range, who don't behgin arriving until one in the afternoon. Hors d'oeuvres will be served in place of lunch andthen dinner will be served at five fifteen promptly. Ninety percent of my family is horribly rude, fair warning." Sherlock explained firmly. "There is also a small ballroom dance just after dinner until seven, at which time everyone begins trickling out. No one but Mycroft, myself, mummy and her sister are ever here past seven."

"Horribly rude? That's rich coming from you." John said with a chuckle.

"Not the same. You'll understand soon enough. Amberleine saved you some breakfast downstairs if you would like it. She's apparently fond of you." Sherlock said tightly. "She wouldn't hold breakfast for Mycroft or I even if we were on our deathbeds."

"She sounds like a pleasant woman. Could you bring me my bag now so I can be dressed? I feel embarrassed being the last one up." John said, frowning.

"Well you aren't if it's any consolation. Mycroft has yet to make an appearance." Sherlock said with a shrug. "He had one of his assistants; the one you thought was fit and was married to her blackberry, drop off our things." Sherlock explained. "I retrieved them from her and she was on her way."

"You were up that early?" John asked, frowning.

"Yes. I hadn't slept well. I tried sleeping in my own bed, but it…proved difficult. I came in and checked on you, I slept in the chair for a little bit, and then I woke up to the car coming up in the driveway." Sherlock said a bit sheepishly.

"Sherlock, that is really bothering you a lot isn't it? What happened with the crash yesterday?" John asked.

"You've nearly died for me on multiple occasions. And I've grown quite accustomed to having you around now. Look can we not try to analyze my feelings mere hours before I am going to have to pretend to enjoy the company of my family who wouldn't give damn whether I had lived or died?" Sherlock said annoyed.

"Relatives." John corrected.

"What?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Nothing, we can talk about it later." John said shaking his head. Sherlock slowly got up and retrieved John's bag, and a suit bag He laid the bag across John's bag. He shook his head, as if remembering something, before darting to his room, and rifling through his own bag and coming back.

"I got you a tie, and no this is not your Christmas gift but the one I saw you pack was awful." Sherlock said, handing over the small box in his hands. It was a dusty red color that made John smile. "I mean honestly tiny little reindeer? I told you this was an even of class and you pack a reindeer tie." Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

"I knew you were watching me Sherlock, and the horrified look you had when I did was worth the joke. I did pack another one later, plain black, but this is better. Thank you." John said. A smile forced its way on his lips. "The pain in my shoulder is mostly gone, so I should be able to dress myself for the most part but ah." John raised the cast slightly, to show off his fingers, his face growing hot. "The buttons will be a bit tricky." He added.

He realized he never wanted to be reduced to this permanently. He's seen enough old men in the hospital who couldn't even use the toilet for themselves to know he would not be able to take living like that. In fact he knew the moment he was no longer able to sprint through London after the world's only consulting detective that he would be ruined. He shook his head of the thoughts.

"Yes well, I'll leave you to do what you can, and I'll be back to help with the rest." Sherlock said curtly, stepping out of the room.

John managed dressing well enough, though bending to put on his trousers made his right side burn with pain. He managed the button and zip with his unbroken hand though with quite a bit of crafty maneuvering. The buttons on his shirt were still too tight to use the same trick, however. He walked over to the door and sighed, opening it to find Sherlock waiting outside.

The detective stepped in, shut the door, and began wordlessly doing up the buttons for John. "You'll need to heal quickly. This is tedious and dull." Sherlock complained. John's suit was plain black, but the shirt underneath was a steel grey. Sherlock wrapped the tie around John's neck, tying it in a very complicated fashion that John wasn't sure he could replicate if he wanted to. It looked braided, but remained in the classic triangle style.

"How many knots do you know?" John asked, astounded.

"Quite a few. This is an Eldredge, and it looks good on the tie." Sherlock said with a shrug. Upon further inspection the tie around Sherlock's neck was also done in an elaborate fashion. "As a boy I learned complicated knots so I didn't have to look like all of the other children at these events, and wouldn't explain them to the adults when they asked. It has forever irked my relatives that I didn't teach them this on in particular," He said, tugging on the tie around John's neck

"So why put it on me?" John asked.

"I told you it looks good on the tie. And it will irk the relatives. They enjoy making Mycroft and I squirm. Might as well exact some revenge." Sherlock explained. He helped John into his suit coat, and folded a matching handkerchief into the pocket of it. "You look good. Maybe this won't be as dreadful as I expected." Sherlock mumbled.

"Why would this have gone badly if I didn't clean up well?" John asked.

"You'll see soon enough." Sherlock said, before walking out of the room. John followed, with a sigh. He really hoped this wasn't going to be as bad as Sherlock was making it seem. At least the man wasn't pouting in his room like a petulant child, like he does on occasion in the flat.

John took the steps slowly, but managed to find his way into the kitchen where Sherlock was now. There were three older women; people he assumed were Sherlock's mother and Aunts. Then there was a younger woman, somewhere between his age and Sherlock's.

"Mummy, I wanted you to meet John before today's torture session began." Sherlock announced. A tall woman with long dark hair, turned around from cutting apples. She was a very attractive woman for her age, though with none of the plastic surgery he could see on the other two women, and she would have been a real knockout in her youth, John was sure.

"I pictured you much taller." The woman said, and John forced himself to crack a smile. He got that a lot. He was short, he knew that, but standing next to Sherlock Holmes made him look even shorter. "Mycroft explained what happened to the both of you when he phoned me last night! I wanted to thank you for bringing my son to Christmas safe and sound. And between you and me, I haven't seen my son this happy since he was a little boy." She said.

"It's nice to meet you Mrs. Holmes. I've always wondered what kind of a woman would be able to bring up those sons of yours. Mycroft bloody kidnapped me when I first met Sherlock. If nothing else you'll never be bored when they are around." John said smiling.

"Please it's Vivienne or Mummy. Whichever you're more comfortable with." She said, going back to her cutting. "Oh and another thing, I have to ask." She turned, pointing the knife at John. "Are you and my son seeing each other romantically?"

"Err. No Ma'am, just flat mates." John said sheepishly.

"Hmm that's what Sherlock and Mycroft keep telling me too. Still don't believe a word of it. Has your surveillance status set to family, which means you're worth more to him than just a means to pay rent." She said, a tone of disbelief in her voice.

"I did shoot a man for Sherlock and refuse money from Mycroft for spying on Sherlock within the first few days of knowing your sons. Sherlock and I are…colleagues, friends and flat mates, but our relationship has not been made a romantic one." John said a bit awkwardly.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at the wording of John's sentence, now staring at him intently. John got the feeling that Sherlock was trying to deduce him again and it made him uncomfortable.

"Really, Sherlock? It's Christmas can we put the 'analyzing, John Watson on hold?" John asked, making Sherlock's face contort into even more confusion.

"It doesn't bother you when we are home." Sherlock countered.

"Because we are at home, and I have things to busy myself with and I know better than to argue with you because it just extends the process." John said.

"Does the same logic not apply here?" Sherlock asked.

"No, because quite frankly I'm going to be treated like your new pet for the next however many hours this lasts, and I get that enough from Anderson and Donovan." John complained.

"Anderson and Donovan don't matter, ignore them, or insult them. It shuts them up for a bit." Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes, now ignoring the detective who went back to analyzing him.

"Did you need help with anything, Mrs….er Vivienne?" John asked.

"No no, of course not! You broke your arm just yesterday in a car wreck, and nearly died preventing my son from dying of hypothermia! Best present of the Holiday if you ask me. The boys will be out on the porch drinking beers, having finished doing the chores I asked for them, but not coming back here to tell me for feat of more work if you wanted to go and meet them. That will be my brother, Sherlock's my brother in law, and my sister's husband as well as Sherlock's cousins. But not the little ones." The woman said.

"Oh I did meet Andrius. Gave me a right and proper wakeup call jumping on my bed." John said laughing. The younger woman span around to look at John.

"He did what now? I am so sorry. We all told him not to wake you but he can be a bit of a troublemaker." She said, honestly apologetic from what John could tell.

"No, it's fine. Should have been up ages ago really, I've never been a late sleeper." John said with a shrug.

"Yes. Five a.m. promptly, even when you don't have work, barring only nights where we've been up all night solving a case." Sherlock said, rubbing his temples, seemingly in annoyance.

"Oh like you have any right to complain about my sleeping habits. You nearly set the flat on fire at three in the morning after four days without sleep, because you were bored." John said.

"It was an experiment John. It couldn't wait. It's not my fault it got a little out of hand." Sherlock defended. John merely rolled his eyes and waved him off.

"You're taking up too much space in here, you two go find something to do. Guests will be getting here soon." She said.

"Where is Amberleine shouldn't be be helping?" Sherlock asked.

"I sent her to go watch the children. The four of them here so far can cause quite a bit of trouble." Vivienne explained.

"Four? Is it not just Andruis and Arabella?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Victoria and Demetrius are here as well." She explained. Sherlock nodded, before stepping out of the kitchen, waving John to come with him They arrived at a quite nice, closed in, porch where there were several men sitting around playing cards.

"Sherlock! Good to see you. Who's this? Your boyfriend?" It was meant to sound light and an honest question, but John could see the malice in the man's eyes who spoke, and it made him angry. Especially when Sherlock seemed to stiffen up beside him; like a rabbit about to bolt instead of the predator he normally embodied.

John merely shook his head no. "No, just flat mates, I'm Captain John Watson." He said stiffly, but with a smile. He didn't often refer to himself by his military status, but some situations required it, and he felt the need to puff his chest out and flaunt it in front of these men, especially when such men actually made Sherlock uncomfortable.

"Good to meet you then. Fresh out of the war then?" Another man asked, seemingly to honestly try to diffuse the tension.

"For nearly a year now actually, got shot badly in my left shoulder and was honorably discharged. I was an Army doctor so having my left arm out of commission was a bit not good." John explained, cracking a forced smile.

"Would you like to have a round then?" A third man asked, pointing to a chair that remained empty. "We don't let the freak play, too good and telling our tells, but it'll be good to have a fresh face in the mix."

John hated that, it was worse used here when Sherlock's family said it than when Donovan used it on the cases. Freak, he could tell the simple word bothered Sherlock, or he wouldn't go out of his way to insult Donovan when she used it. He knew why now. His relatives must have called it to him behind his back, and to his face, most of his life. John sat down at the gaming table.

"Deal me in then." He said. His face steeled at he picked up his cards. Sherlock sat next to him, but was obviously not playing; he was paying a lot of attention to the game however.

"You know my methods." Sherlock merely stated, placing his palms together, fingers under his chin as he watched.

They played, starting with some rather low stakes games, but gradually upping the ante as they went. John won a few, but threw a few. He wanted the men to underestimate his abilities. He wouldn't exactly call it hustling, just strategy. Sherlock's face remained passive through the entire game, but John could tell he was confused when he forfeit a few good hands.

The man on his left, whom he figured out his name was Daniel, wiped his nose whenever he was having a particularly bad hand. To the left of him had a shaking leg, the next would swallow a few times in quick succession. The fourth was a bit trickier, but John realized he was concealing his tell, conscious of it, so he just needed to watch for the man to become overly tense. Then the last two were twins, not identical but they had the same tell each glancing nervously over at their brother when their hands were garbage.

Once the bets reached 100 dollars apiece, John stopped playing around. He won several games in a row, much to the surprise of Sherlock and the men sitting around the table. Their frustration levels were rising rapidly, and John could tell that if it persisted one of them may be tempted to come to blows. However, Mycroft appeared a hand later, and sat down at the table.

"Good to see you are awake." One of the men commented. Mycroft merely held up a cup of coffee.

That was something John would not have guessed about the elder Holmes brother. He was not a morning person. He looked well enough, dressed to perfection as usual clean cut as usual but tired.

"It seems John here has been giving you a run for your money." Mycroft said with a smirk. "Deal me in." He added, pulling a chair across from John. Sherlock looked surprised, but didn't comment. Then it turned less into a game of poker, and more into a battle between John and Mycroft. It lasted only an hour more, but Mycroft ended 200 in the hole and the other men further in the hole.

"When did you learn to play poker so well?" One of the men asked

"Sherlock told you at the beginning of the game." John said, boredom evident in his tone. "I know his methods, and quite frankly you lot aren't too good at hiding your tells, especially not once you think the opponent is incompetent. Won a few, didn't bluff when I could have and folded a few good hands at the beginning of the game. Raises your confidence against the new opponent, doesn't work for long before the opponents let anger get the best of them, but luckily Mycroft joined the game and diffused the tension. Allowing me to take a few more hands off of you lot." John said shrugging, collecting his winnings.

Usually he didn't like taking money off of people, but Sherlock didn't seem too offended by it. He meant to give Mycroft back his money later. He felt bad for taking money off of the man that basically saved his life the night previous. He would do that when these men were not around to watch.

"And look boys, normally I don't take money off strangers, but I'm going to keep this, and the hole it's created in your wallets should serve as a reminder not to throw petty insults at your relatives," he said, holding up the money and placing it int the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He stood, and walked out of the porch. Sherlock looked confused, and then stunned for a moment, before a smug look overtook his face and he snickered and followed John out of the room leaving a smirking Mycroft and the rest of the men gaping like fish at the table.

"You know you might have gotten along with them if you hadn't pulled that little stunt." Sherlock drawled, as he took lead from John now wandering about the house.

"No. Definitely wouldn't have. Remind me too much of the jerks in Uni, and then the jerks in Afghanistan. Unbelievably rude and shallow." John replied, looking over at Sherlock.

"Fair warning." Sherlock said, looking at John seriously, "They aren't the worse of it. And Mummy does prefer these things go smoothly so she doesn't need to bother with these people for the rest of the year."

"Noted." John said. "Mycroft won't be miffed with me for that will he? I'm not particularly fond of your brother, but being on _the _British Government's bad side is never a good idea." John half-joked, repeating the words Sherlock told him not all that long ago about his brother.

"If anything he'll be amused. He dislikes these people as much as I do, if not more" Sherlock said, apparently aimlessly walking through the large estate. John assumed this was Sherlock's version of giving him the tour of his childhood home.

It took only two hours for more guests to begin arriving. John and Sherlock had settled into what John assumed was the main room of the event, proven further when other people began shuffling in and mingling. There were a few people carrying trays of different foods and drinks. All of which were passed up by both John and Sherlock.

"I had expected a lecture about me needing to eat after last night." Sherlock said absently.

"Something about the atmosphere your family creates makes my stomach roll. I'm no hypocrite. I won't scold you for not eating if I'm not." John said with a shrug, watching warily as a couple approached them.

"Genevieve and Andrew, second cousins, pleasant but dull. Coming up behind then Victor and Erika unpleasant and stupid, third cousins I believe" Sherlock warned.

"Sherlock! It's so good to see you! You mother was telling us you brought a friend with you this year! I had rather hoped she meant a lady friend. For your sake." The woman, Erika, Sherlock had pointed out, said.

"I do not have 'lady-friends' in the way you are implying Erika. You know this, yet you find a way to bring it up every time you see me. Are you that stupid or do you just enjoy sounding like a broken record?" Sherlock asked, glancing at the woman.

"All you have to do is tell me where you like to stick it and I would stop fishing for answers every time!" The woman said, a tight smile and a forced laugh gracing her face.

"Erika that is rude!" The woman named Genevieve squeaked as if scandalized. John realized exactly what John meant by dull now, when describing the couple. Her face was blushed bright pink from her ears and down her neck.

"So Sherlock, introduce us to your flat mate then will ya?" Victor asked, slapping Sherlock on the shoulder, John could tell much harder than was necessary.

"Everyone this is Dr. John Watson, John meet Victor, Erika, Genevieve and Andrew." Sherlock drawled rolling his eyes. Mycroft strolled up to them moments later.

"Sherlock do try to reign in your incredible enthusiasm for being here. It is Christmas Eve after all." He said, though annoyance was heavy in his voice as well.

To John and Sherlock's surprise Greg Lestrade strolled up next to Mycroft.

"That's who you meant last night! How long has this been going on? When did you two even meet?" Sherlock asked. It was out of character for him not to know something before everyone else. The two couples they were previously talking to looked quite offended, one more than the other, but trotted away dramatically.

"Lestrade and I had a little chat when the two of you met, similarly to the meeting of John and I. He is one of two people who actually turned down the money I offered him for information. Mummy invited him." Mycroft explained looking smug.

"I was going to tell the two of you, but Mycroft wanted to be dramatic, as per usual." Greg said, rolling his eyes. "What'd you do to your arm?" he asked, looking at John.

"Sherlock and I got into a car accident last night." John explained, as another group of people approached them.

"Oh that must have been horrible!" A small woman said. She was only around 5'2 with a tiny frame, standing dwarfed by the men around her. Her partner was a woman, John's height, but thin and willowy. She was the one related to Sherlock, distantly, but John could tell. John received a text message, so he continued his story while somewhat discreetly taking out his phone.

"Could have been worse, the driver hit me dead on, but the car didn't flip. The waiting in the cold last night that was difficult.

**Amber and Tammi, full name Tamora don't call her by it. Did you know about them? Greg and Mycroft I mean. –SH**

John rolled his eyes upon receiving the text message from his brother.

**No. How would I have figured it out if you didn't? –JW**

**You are better at sentiment than I am. –SH**

John sighed, and put his phone away. The night went much like that. The sit down dinner was tense, forced, as if someone was holding many of them there by gunpoint. The food was spectacular, however.

Sugar sculptures, because ice made an awful mess according to Vivienne. There was a goose, and ham and a turkey sitting on the table, with various sides, gravies and dressings.

The aftermath was worse. There was dancing, which John managed to talk his way out of because of his stapled leg, though several of Sherlock's seemingly-single cousins had asked them. Sherlock's mood got cloudier after ever advance on John.

"If you don't want to stay here and mingle we can cut out early. Go to the sitting room and wait until everyone's left." Sherlock offered bending near John's ear so he could tell him without anyone else overhearing. Before John could reply an angry looking man, around his age possibly a year or so older, stalked over to them.

"Look fags. It's enough that we need to deal with all you fairies to begin with, there's no need to be shoving your freaky shit in everyone's face." His voice was uneducated for someone of his status, and John tensed, fist clenched as well as his jaw. He ignored the man. "Amber and Tammy, seemed to have left awfully early." John commented conversationally.

"Tammy always leaves early, despite my mother asking her to stay. The climate here is increasingly hostile towards her and her girlfriends, as you can gather from that….disgusting display of low class." Sherlock said, frowning. He was composed and calm, but his eyes were panicky. John had become much better at reading the detective over the course of time they knew each other. He tensed in the same way he did when asking John to punch him before meeting Irene Adler. John didn't like that at all.

The man who had addressed them looked angrier. He made a show of rolling up his suit sleeves as well as the sleeves of his dress shirt, balling his fists in a display that was supposed to be threatening. John was beyond annoyed, and before the man could even move to pull a swing, John punched him dead in the jaw. He felt a crunch, a feeling he had only felt to be a satisfying one twice in his life. "That will need to be wired. Have a Happy Christmas." John said. He had never been a very tolerant man when it came to homophobia, especially if a person was spitting names at him, or people close to him.

Everyone in the room stopped, Vivienne looked rather concerned, but leaned over to ask Mycroft something. Mycroft answered, and the face changed to fury. John only hoped that wasn't directed at him. Mycroft looked rather pleased, however, so John didn't worry too much. Lestrade looked surprised more than anything, much to John's amusement. A few women looked especially scandalized, and men looked angry.

"What is this all about? I will not have my son abused by this riff-raff you allow to your Dinner Parties Vivienne." An older man called from across the room.

"Considering _your _son just got done spitting insulting slurs at my son and his guest, I would have to ask you, and your _son _to leave immediately. This is my home and I will not have my family be made fun of, or demeaned. Get out of my house, and remember you will not be invited back in." She yelled. She glared as she watched the small part of the family march out of the house. "Dear friends and family, I apologize for the bit of ruckus that may have caused, and for this inconvenience this might. Due to some enlightening information I will have to ask the rest of you to leave as well while I sort out this mess. I wish you all a Happy Christmas and a safe ride home." Vivienne called.

With that, people started trickling out. The night had some to an end, finally, but Sherlock was giving him a concerning look now.


End file.
